Philopotamus, they called her, the boys in the trees, following her slow progress down the main street of Teresa Colony, Orlem. "Phi-lo-Phi-lo-po-tah-mus," they would shriek, one ragged chorus picking up where the other left off. She, unsmiling, would walk the gauntlet, her shoulders swinging and double chins bobbing, eyes locked straight ahead. If she looked like she had a purpose, she reasoned, they would pipe down and go away. They never did.
When Philomena was little – a sweet child among the motley bunch perennially outside Obrigado Mansion, where she was born and raised – the elderly ladies of the neighbourhood would walk up to her and tug her cheeks. "So cute men, she is," they would say to each other, before stumbling into shared memories of former friends and relatives who were once as cute, in better times long behind them. Philomena would endure their caresses and accept their adulation without question. She would then wriggle out of their grasp and waddle back to her games with the other children.